


Charcoal and Oil

by LizzieHarker



Series: The Arrowsverse [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Fluff, M/M, Pancakes, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), a smattering of angst, okay more than a smattering of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 01:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9525212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: He was glad to have Bucky back, glad he’d chosen to keep Steve close. Bucky had a long road to walk, but he’d asked Steve to walk it with him. His heart skipped a beat, and Steve cracked open the cover of his journal. The pages bore water damage, but the drawing themselves had somehow survived. It was the later sketches he cared about anyway. His finger found the page. The edges were worn smooth, the corner wrinkled. Century-old charcoal drifted around his head, carrying with it a memory fragranced with fresh paper, the warm wet heat of a fire escape in summer, and a long forgotten cologne.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iamcoffeehawk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamcoffeehawk/gifts).



> I was asked for fluff.  
> I kinda failed.  
> Oops.
> 
> Let's be real though: the angst just writes itself.
> 
> Sorry, bro.

Steve sat in a decently comfortable chair, drumming his fingers on the worn cover of his journal. He’d meant to work while Bucky was in therapy, but the sound of his voice, even muffled through wall and glass, proved too distracting. It hummed through Steve’s blood, familiar and half-forgotten, a sound he’d happily listen to forever. Almost two months had passed since Bucky had woken from cryosleep, since they’d started disarming Hydra’s trigger words, since Steve had gotten his best friend back. 

Well, somewhat. 

They’d both changed. Of course they had. He wasn’t surprised or upset; how could things have stayed the same after . . .

He shook his head, shoving away the guilt. He was glad to have Bucky back, glad he’d chosen to keep Steve close. Bucky had a long road to walk, but he’d asked Steve to walk it with him. His heart skipped a beat, and Steve cracked open the cover of his journal. The pages bore water damage, but the drawing themselves had somehow survived. It was the later sketches he cared about anyway. His finger found the page. The edges were worn smooth, the corner wrinkled. Century-old charcoal drifted around his head, carrying with it a memory fragranced with fresh paper, the warm wet heat of a fire escape in summer, and a long forgotten cologne. 

Steve tilted the book in his lap. There was only one other person in the waiting room, but the chance of anyone else catching sight of the sketch made Steve uncomfortable. It felt too intimate to expose, so when he did part the pages, he did so with his hands shielding the edges. He hadn’t look at the portrait in ages; he hadn’t thought it was any good.

He’d had to redo it because he’d ruined the original with tears. Then he’d ruined that one, too. He’d drawn it over so many times, the lines became second nature.

He’d shoved the sketchbook in a drawer. 

He’d left it on his nightstand because it was too painful to hide, but he couldn’t bring himself to look.

Steve hadn’t known what to expect, but he when he did look, the same nervous butterflies tickled at his ribs. He came over warm, a shy smile curling his lips. He’d broken three pencils trying to get the shading and lighting right but it had been worth it. He couldn’t have a photograph back then, but he’d had a portrait.

The door opened and Bucky walked out, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes averted. Steve snapped the notebook shut and rose to meet him, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder. Bucky followed him into the lobby and into the elevator.

“So,” Steve started, rocking on his heels. “How was therapy?”

“Therapeutic,” Bucky quipped, hitting the _c_ hard. Half a smile pulled at his lips. 

Steve rolled his eyes. Bucky’s sarcasm had been one of the first things to return. 

Second, he amended. 

Bucky’s filthy mouth had been first, but the two were usually interchangeable. Sometimes, though, Bucky’s voice fell flat and it was hard to tell if he was joking at all. They moved onto the street, Bucky a step behind. Crowds made him skittish, and the new New York hadn’t made the transition any easier.

“Hey, Stevie?” Bucky said, so soft Steve would have missed it were Bucky not standing so close. A faint blushed colored his cheeks. “Would it, uh, be okay if I held your hand?”

Steve’s heart melted and collected into a puddle. “Of course.” He took Bucky’s hand, but Bucky shifted to lace their fingers together. Steve gave his hand a squeeze. Bucky’s right hand was always cold. His left he kept gloved and in his pocket. Bucky let Steve pull him onto the sidewalk. Tension pulled at Bucky’s shoulders, and Steve felt the muscles contract up Bucky’s arm.

Steve bumped into him. “I found this little cafe the other day. I thought we could stop by after your session. If you’re hungry,” Steve added. Bucky was never hungry, but Steve knew Bucky would eat if Steve were watching. He’d always been lean, but the new sharpness in his friend’s face wasn’t Hydra’s cruelty alone. “I hear they have the best pancakes.”

Bucky snorted. “You and pancakes.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with pancakes. What do you say? My treat.” Steve nudged him again, plying one of his warmest smiles. 

“Fine.” 

Bucky stuck close through the crowded streets, but his tension didn’t ease. Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand again. “What’s wrong?” 

He shrugged. “It’s a lot to take in is all. And this,” he said, rocking their joined hands a bit.

“You’re expecting someone to start a fight because we’re holding hands?”

“No, I’m expecting you to start a fight because someone has a problem we’re holding hands.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound like me,” Steve said. Bucky arched an eyebrow. “Okay, that’s exactly me, but it’s not something I’m worried about. And no, not because I can take ‘em.”

“Didn’t say a word, Stevie.”

They turned a corner, and Steve stopped before a tiny red door. He held it open for Bucky to pass through, and the bell chimed as it shut behind them. Bucky made for a table in the back. He felt better with a wall behind him and the door in the plain sight. Steve draped the strap of his messenger bag on the corner of his chair and set his journal on the table. The place smelled warm and sweet, the bitter scent of coffee floating under something sugary and tart. 

“You know what you want?”

Bucky hadn't touched anything on the table, let alone a menu. Steve moved his foot beneath the table, entangling one of Bucky’s legs.  
“Hey, how about we split an order of pancakes.”

Bucky looked up, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “It was enough when you were 90 pounds soaking wet. Two pancakes in and you’d call it quits. Dunno if that’ll be enough these days. But then again, I’m not really hungry,” Bucky said. “Hard to get excited about food when everything still tastes like ash and freezer burn.”

A familiar ache echoed in Steve’s chest. “Won’t last forever though.” He wished he could snap his fingers and undo every terrible thing Bucky had endured. His wished all of Bucky’s smiles weren’t sad smiles. 

The only thing Steve could do was be there for him. 

Steve glanced back at the counter and caught sight of the approaching waitress. “You wanna order?”

Bucky shook his head. He avoided looking at the woman who stopped at their table. Steve gave their order, paused, then brushed Bucky’s leg again. “Do you guys make hot chocolate? Milk instead of water? And do you have a bottle of honey?”

“I think we can manage,” the waitress said, giving Steve a wink before trotting off.

“You remember how I like my hot chocolate and my pancakes?” Bucky asked.

“Course I do.” Steve rested his hands on the table, palms up. He wriggled his finger; Bucky reluctantly took his hands. “And if you forget, I’ll remind you,” he said, brushing his thumbs along the ridges of Bucky’s knuckles. 

Bucky’s gaze shifted from Steve’s hands to the journal tucked beneath his arm. He tapped a metal finger against the leather cover. “You got a lotta ghosts in there. I have a dozen notebooks with different pieces of my brain, hundreds of different versions of me. I hate dredging up all the bad stuff, the nightmare things, but I don’t wanna forget anything ever again. Is that weird?”

Steve shook his head. “Nope. You fought for every piece you found. You came back to yourself, and no one’s gonna own you but you.” He squeezed Bucky’s hands again. Even sitting across from him, touching him, Steve sometimes couldn’t believe Bucky was really there. 

“Do you still draw?” 

Bucky’s question caught him off guard. Steve caught a flash of metal wrist as Bucky overturned his hand, studying his fingertips. Charcoal smudged across his skin, settled into the lines of his fingerprints. 

“Not as often as I used to. Didn’t feel like I had a reason to.”

“You don’t need a reason to draw. Sometimes that’s when you create the best stuff. You always had a pencil tucked behind your ear.” Bucky’s gaze drifted. “You smelled like charcoal, sometimes like oil paint and turpentine. Once you worked so long, you were sneezing black dust for a week. Charcoal and oils and ink warm from the printing press. You smelled like home.” He closed his eyes, and the thought flittered through Steve’s head that Bucky could read their past in the lines of his palms. “You always smelled like home, even when the ink and oil turned into leather and metal and snow.” Bucky’s eyes fluttered open, pinning Steve with a mix of surety and curiosity. “But you always smell like charcoal, just a little.”  


Steve flushed, his vision swimming. “I missed you, Buck.”

“I missed you, too, Stevie.”

Then Bucky snatched his hands away. Steve’s heart broke a little, but he pinned a smile on as the waitress set two mugs of hot chocolate and a plate of pancakes between them. The honey bottle she set closest to Bucky before departing again. Steve watched as Bucky tentatively reached for the mug, wrapping both hands around it and bringing it to his lips. Steve gave his drink an experimental sip; it was scalding, but Bucky tipped his head back as if it were water.

When he caught Steve watching him, he shrugged. “I’m always cold.” 

Steve slid two pancakes onto a plate and shoved them in Bucky’s direction. He dug his fork into the rest. Bucky didn’t move, watching Steve over the rim of his mug. 

Steve swallowed the mouthful of pancake. “What?”

“You’re upset,” Bucky said. “What did I do?”

The ache pulsed again, fresh as a bruise. Steve shook his head. “You didn’t do anything, Buck.”

Bucky set his mug down, reaching his right hand out for Steve’s. “I pulled away and it hurt you.”

“I know it wasn’t me.” Steve traced the lines of Bucky’s fingers with his thumb. “I know you’re not exactly comfortable with public displays of affection.”

“I know it’s not a crime, but I still feel . . .”

“Like it’s a secret we can’t share in public,” Steve finished. “I get it. But no one’s watchin’ us. Even if they glance our way, they don’t know who we are. Now will you please humor me and pretend to eat?”

Bucky chuckled, withdrew his hand, and picked up his fork. He flicked the top of the honey open with his left hand, and Steve caught the muffled whir of the metal arm’s servos as Bucky drizzled honey over his breakfast. Bucky cut a triangle out of the pancake, speared it, and popped it into his mouth. The look of surprise that washed over his face eased Steve’s hurt a bit.

“Good?” 

“Yeah, actually,” Bucky answered, taking another bite. “This is the first thing that’s tasted real to me in years.”

Steve couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. Bucky’s happiness meant the world to him. A nervous flutter kicked up in his belly as he reached into his bag and withdrew a small rectangular package. He set it on the table and pushed it toward Bucky.

“What’s that?” Bucky asked.

“A present,” Steve answered, the flush creeping up his neck.

“Why? You didn’t have to get me anything.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, but his voice was light, teasing. “Because I can, and you don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do. There’s nothing wrong with me getting you a gift, and there’s-”

“There’s nothing wrong with a guy treatin’ his best friend to breakfast,” Bucky finished, voice distant. He lost focus, staring at some fixed point seventy years in their past. “We’ve done this before. We’ve done this before, and I remember it.” 

Steve drew his cup close as his heart rattled in his chest. “I’m sure we’ve had plenty of breakfasts.”

“No. This.” Bucky gestured at the gift. He closed his eyes, trying to catch hold of the images slipping through his mind. “You . . . You sold a sketch to that shoe agency. You were so damn excited. They paid enough to cover our rent and some of the backpay we owed. We went out to celebrate.” A soft laugh escaped him. “You wanted pancakes. And you gave me something wrapped in newsprint.”

He knew that memory, too. Bucky had scooped him up and kissed him, the look of pride on his face overwhelmingly beautiful. But he hadn’t wanted to go out. Bucky always worried someone would figure out what they meant to each other. Steve had talked him down, saying that no one would be lookin’ at them anyway. Two guys having breakfast wasn’t a crime; Steve’s leg hooking around Bucky’s might have been a misdemeanor. 

“Open it,” Steve whispered. 

Bucky did, carefully unwrapping the paper. The moment he opened the box, his expression went blank.

Steve had nestled the book into a bed of tissue paper, careful to keep the cover intact. The color had faded in the corners but remained a vibrant teal elsewhere. The illustrated diver stood out in black ink, _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_ spelled out across the top in light blue. Bucky’s hand hovered over it, his fingers trembling.

“I hope you still love Jules Verne.”

Disbelief colored Bucky’s voice. “This looks just like the one I had in the ‘30s. I read it so many times, the cover damn near fell off.” 

He lifted the book out of the box with a reverence that made Steve’s heart ache in an entirely different way. Bucky turned the book over, running his right hand over the binding. His fingers skipped over the tape holding it together, and then he opened the cover. Bucky’s eyes went wide. He looked from Steve to the book and back before turning away.

Steve already knew what the book said. It was the reason he’d bought it.

_B. Barnes from S. Rogers. To remind you of the adventures in deep dark sea and the glittering night sky; in stolen glances and whispered secrets; and to remind you how much I love you._

Bucky held the book like a relic. The light caught the angles of his face, reflecting in the stormy shade of his eyes. Steve’s hand itched for his notebook and pencil. He’d memorized the planes and lines of Bucky’s face, from his dark lashes to his plush lips to the dent in his chin. The empty page was blurred in blacks and grays in no time. Absently, Steve realized Bucky was sitting at the same angle as his original portrait. 

A new one was long overdue. 

“How?” 

Steve almost didn’t hear him. If he hadn’t been watching Bucky’s face, he wouldn’t have seen his lips move. He stopped smudging the pencil marks with his fingers. “Wandered into a thrift shop one day, few years back. I like the way the used books smell. Found that one sitting on the bottom shelf and there was no way I wasn’t buying it. Again,” he added.

Bucky shook his head, tears lining his lashes. “How do you keep finding pieces of me scattered across a city we left decades ago?”

“It’s what I do.” Steve’s vision had gone suspiciously misty as well. A lifetime ago, they’d sat across from each other, sharing breakfast, Steve almost too nervous to give Bucky the book he’d bought for him.

Bucky fanned through the pages, a real smile creeping across his face. Steve melted at the sight of it. “Remember when you knocked over your coffee and it stained the edges? You left drips on the page. I spent an hour separating them, and I was so mad, I swore I wouldn’t talk to you all day.”

“You lasted three hours.”

“Three and a half,” Bucky corrected. He set the book down, then patted the bench beside him. “C’mere.”

Steve pushed his chair back and moved to sit beside Bucky, dropping his journal atop Bucky’s book. The moment Bucky wrapped his arms around him, Steve could have wept. 

Bucky’s breath whispered across his neck. “Thank you. Stevie, thank you.”

He tightened his embrace. This was the closest they’d been since Bucky woke up, since they started undoing all the horrors in his head. Bucky had asked for space, for time; they hadn’t discussed whether or not they’d remain friends or be something more. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. You know I’d do anything for you.” And he would. 

“Am I?” Bucky asked, shifting so they sat side by side, his head on Steve’s shoulder. “Your sweetheart?”

The butterflies in Steve’s chest grew larger. He wanted something more, but the choice was Bucky’s to make. “Only if you want to be.” 

He reached over, flipping his journal open to Bucky in his uniform, the easy smirk betrayed by the sorrow in his eyes. “My feelings haven’t changed. I loved you then,” he said, before turning to the half-finished portrait of Bucky reading, lips parted, hair messily tied back. “I love you now.”

Bucky pressed his gloved hand to Steve’s cheek, the other ghosting around Steve’s back. “I love you, too.” 

Bucky’s lips pressed to his, slow and gentle, then more daring. Bucky’s tongue brushed along Steve’s lower lip, testing, before pushing deeper. He tasted like honey, rich and sweet, and Steve was content to drown in him. Bucky pulled away, nuzzling against him. 

“I love you, too,” he said again. “I love you because I know none of this is easy, but you make me feel worthy of pinching.”

Steve brushed the back of his hand along Bucky’s cheek, leaving a streak of gray charcoal dust. Bucky rarely blushed, but the sight was beautiful to behold. It made his heart hammer against his ribs. “Sometimes I think I’m dreaming, too.”

“I know I’m not,” Bucky answered. “I know I’m where I’m supposed to be.” He lifted Steve’s hand, threading their fingers together. “You still smell like charcoal. Like home.”

Steve tilted Bucky’s face up to kiss him again, reveling in the feeling of Bucky’s mouth on his, Bucky’s fingers splayed against his back and shoulder, Bucky’s soft sighs across his skin. His fingers brushed along Bucky’s cheekbones, along his jaw, committing every detail to muscle memory. The man in his arms meant the world to him, and Steve was so very _very_ much in love.


End file.
